


Hammers and Strings

by percussion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:20:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percussion/pseuds/percussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They crack one by one, to no one's surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammers and Strings

**Author's Note:**

> ...yep. Title from the Jack's Mannequin song.

They crack one by one, to nobody’s surprise. 

Zayn misses their six a.m. wakeup call one day, and when management shows up at his hotel room door to chew him out, he’s asleep. They can’t wake him up. When he finally emerges 36 hours later, he won’t talk to anyone. 

Niall’s next, standing up on the table at a signing, screaming that he just wants them all to _stop touching him_. They all wait a few minutes to see if it’s a joke, the crowd of girls shrieking in response and then quieting when he doesn’t stop. Eventually the security guards get worried and start to clear the crowd. In 45 minutes the venue is empty. Niall’s still yelling, _leave me alone_ and _get the fuck away_ and _this is such shit_. The rest of the boys keep signing CDs, piling them at his feet. 

They hit a mismatched security situation, mobs of fans and only a few burly men to protect them. The boys lose half their clothing, and it isn’t until they get inside the van that they realize Harry’s bleeding. The gash across his cheek needs stitches. The scratches up his arms get infected. They have to re-choreograph the rest of the tour to include microphone stands because his hands never stop shaking. 

The paparazzi stake out their hotel, desperate for any shred of news. They’re mostly middle-aged men, overweight, cameras and tape recorders slung over their shoulders. As the boys drag themselves inside after the last appearance of the night, they hear one of them jeering loudly, _queer_ and _faggot_ and _the one in stripes_. Louis launches himself at the guy, scratching and kicking and punching until his white striped shirt is soaked with blood. He peels it off, stands shirtless, breathing hard, and calmly walks into the hotel. No photos ever emerge from that night. 

The next morning, Liam starts laughing hysterically when a pretty blonde interviewer asks how they cope with fame. She chuckles along with him for a few seconds, waiting for him to sober up and give her a proper answer. He doesn’t. The footage of him cackling while the other four boys stare at him, dead eyes, blank faces, is shown on every news station across the country, across the world. 

The management releases a statement: exhaustion, hiatus, massive thank you. No one has to say it’s over. They know, they all know, even the fans know, but hiatus is such a kind word, a kind word that says _maybe someday we can fix what we’ve broken_ and _this is normal_ and _have hope_. So they all take that hope, clutching signed CDs and ticket stubs and the thought that they’ll walk into a bar in ten years and say _holy shit, that guy in the corner looks just like Harry Styles, should I ask him for an autograph?_ , even though that’s crazy, that’s so crazy.


End file.
